Every collector has a market ritual. Sunday arrives:
"I'm just going to have a look."
No list.
No plan.
Certainly no intention of bringing home another chrome lamp, Stelton ice bucket, stack of architecture books, or that mysterious but gorgeous ceramic vessel whose purpose has been lost to history. Maybe it was a spittoon? It can be washed.
An hour and fifteen minutes later you're standing in a parking lot wondering how, exactly, an eight-foot wooden ladder became part of your day.
This is where the problems begin.
Not with the buying.
With the carrying.
You can spot us immediately.
We're the ones attempting to balance six books, a bundle of asparagus, an Italian table lamp and a coffee while insisting,
"I've got it."
We do not, in fact, have it.
At some point your friends stop asking what you bought.
Instead they start texting photographs:
"Saw this chair and thought of you."
"This ashtray has your name on it."
"Please don't buy another lamp. But check this out!"
Helpful.
The truth is we don't actually collect objects.
We collect stories.
A Murano vase that survived three apartments.
Your favorite coffee grinder, discovered in a freezing Vermont barn.
The chair that absolutely didn't fit in the car but somehow got home anyway. Full-on Grapes of Wrath vibes.
That spittoon you told yourself you weren't buying because, "who needs another bowl? Do you take Venmo?"
Eventually someone sees you struggling across a flea market parking lot and says the words we've all been trying very hard not to hear:
"You need this bag."
Fair enough.
Our Market Totes weren't designed for groceries.
They were designed for optimism.
For people who genuinely believe they'll leave an estate sale empty-handed.
For vintage shoppers who have run out of shelf space but not enthusiasm.
For anyone who has ever uttered the phrase,
"Where exactly are we going to put this?"
...after already paying for it.